Accidents
by Ashlyn-i
Summary: When Sherlock recieves text messages from an unknown source asking for his help, he naturally has to go and investigate. He will soon discover that someone is desperate to commit murder, even when he's around. Set before "The Blind Banker". Please R&R.
1. Files

Hi, I was going to wait as I have so many stories on the go at the moment, then thought what the heck, so here you go. I'm hoping that this is going to be the first in a series, but it is all down to you.  
I apologise if you feel it is a little slow at first but I hope things quicken up at a later date.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, disappointingly, but I thought the series was outstanding and cannot wait for more. I really hope they do a christmas special as I think it will be hilarious to see christmas dinner at the Holmes'.**

* * *

It was late. She needed to get to bed soon or she'll just fall asleep the desk. She knew that, but this was more important.

Her eyes slid over the same sentence three times before she realised that she hadn't taken in a single word. She put the paper down and rubbed her eyes with a groan. Could this wait until morning?

Then she thought of Billy Grubbs' body as they had carried it through the house. They had carried it right past the children, stupid of them. Half the kids had had nightmares for weeks after. Some of them still had them. Even she sometimes saw a blackened hand or his piecing screams, not that she let anyone know.

She stared at the paper, willing for the answer to jump out at her. Nothing happened. With a moan, she decided that it really could wait until morning.

As she put the papers back in the file, she noticed a small A5 slip that she had overlooked. She picked it up and read it. Of course! How could she have forgotten? Her jubilant smile faltered.

If this was true, the death, all of the deaths, "accidents, terrible dreadful accidents" to quote her boss, weren't accidents at all. They were murders!

Her thoughts immediately flew back to the children sleeping in their beds. Which one of them will be next?

Or, she thought with a gulp, as one worker had already died, will the next one be her?

* * *

John Watson ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to remember the details of the murder case Sherlock had recently solved. He had named it "A Study in Pink"; he thought it was a good title. He turned in his seat to ask Sherlock for a detail about the murderer, only to see his flatmate stroll past in the direction of the bathroom with the toaster.

'Sherlock?' John said, momentarily taken aback and completely forgetting what he had been to ask, he said, 'what are you doing?'

Sherlock looked at him as if it should be plainly obvious and said simply, 'the microwave is still broken.'

'Well, whose fault is that?' John muttered, 'it was all because of you and those stupid eyes.'

Sherlock sniffed and said huffily, 'it was an experiment.'

'And what are you doing with that?' John asked.

Sherlock ignored the question. 'I still have some left over,' he said, pulling a small jar from his pocket and showing John the contents. John noticed, with a mixture of disappointment and relief, that this jar was a lot smaller than the previous one. 'I didn't see the point in keeping them in the old one,' Sherlock said, as if he could read John's mind, 'it made it look like they had nearly gone.'

John thought for a moment trying to get his head around this, failed and so asked instead, 'where did you put the other jar?'

'In the sink,' Sherlock said airily and moved off again.

It was then that John realised that Sherlock had completely failed to answer his previous question. 'Hey, hey Sherlock.' Sherlock stopped with his foot in the bathroom doorway. He spun round the see that his flat-mate had moved so that he could see him and was frowning at him. 'You still haven't told me what you're doing with the toaster.'

Sherlock considered the point, before deciding he might as well give an answer. 'I'm testing what happens when I drop human eyes in water containing an electric current.' He took another step inside the bathroom.

John looked puzzled for a moment. 'How are you…' he trailed off as understanding hit. 'No, Sherlock! No! You can't drop the toaster in a bath full of water!' John exclaimed, taking two strides forward and wrenching the toaster out of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock's lower lip twitched forward slightly. 'Why not?' he asked stubbornly.

'Sherlock,' John said, with the voice of a parent explaining something to their complaining toddler, 'you can't create an electric current by dropping the toaster in the bath because you'll electrocute yourself. And it will ruin the toaster. You remember how Mrs Hudson reached when you blew up the microwave!'

'If I didn't experiment, I wouldn't know how it would respond.'

'You suspected though.'

There was a pause. 'Yes.'

'Well, then,' John said. The finality in his voice was obvious. 'I don't want to have to pay to recreate the bathroom, thank you very much.'

Sherlock merely scowled, pushed past John as he plugged the toaster back into the socket and threw himself onto the sofa, where he folded his arms and scowled out the window. John turned around, saw Sherlock sulking, sighed heavily and ambled back to his laptop. His eyes took a while to focus on the screen. Once they did and he had realised that he had forgotten to ask Sherlock about the murderer, he'd given up on it being answered. When Sherlock was having one of his turns, nothing but a gruesome murder could distract him.

John saved the "Study in Pink" case under drafts, intending to finish it once Sherlock was back to his arrogant, irritatingly smart self, rather than the Sherlock lying on the sofa imitating a stroppy four-year-old.

Then Sherlock's phone beeped. John felt it through Sherlock's jacket material. Sherlock didn't even look up. John waited a moment to see whether Sherlock was going to move to check it, but when his flat-mate didn't make a move, sighed and fumbled in the jacket for the phone.

When he finally extracted it from the pocket, he was slightly disappointed when the number was unrecognised. Despite himself, the doctor had been hoping for a message from Inspector Lestrade needing Sherlock's help on a murder. Anything to get Sherlock out of this tantrum mood.

His curiosity now caught, John opened the text. He had enough time to only read the first word when Sherlock, who had moved without John noticing, snatched the phone out of his hand and scanned the text. He put the phone back on the desk, frowning.

John read the text upside-down. There was now a churning feeling in his stomach, nothing to do with the fact that he had no eaten since eight that morning.

_I need your help! 23 Westward Grove. Please come!_

John's hopes were raised momentarily before Sherlock deleted the text. John opened his mouth to complain, but Sherlock waved his complaints away. 'If it's important, they'll text again.'

He had barely taken a step before the phone beeped again. Both men stared at it, and then John reached to receive it. Sherlock knocked his hand away and John watched his jaw clench as he read it.

'I'll think about it,' Sherlock said as if the sender could hear him, dropped the phone back on the desk and stalked out of the room. John waited until he heard Sherlock's bedroom door slam before reaching over and finding the text in the inbox.

_Do not ignore. I need your help. Lives at stake. 23 Westward Grove. Please come! L.E.E_

Well, thought John as he replaced the phone on the desktop and decided that he might follow Sherlock's example and call it a day, at least he didn't delete this one.

* * *

Please tell me what you think!

Reviews recieved with open arms! :D


	2. Care

I've done a re-write as I wasn't happy with my second-fourth chapters. Hopefully they're better. Will try and update soon.

* * *

Sherlock was up and moving about the flat long before John's eyes opened the next morning. He seemed much happier than he did yesterday. Wondering, as he happened to do every morning, whether his flat-mate even bothered to sleep at night, John took two slices of bread from the bread bin – the last two slices, he noted, must get more bread – and went to put them in the toaster only to discover what was amiss.

'Sherlock, where's the toaster?' John called from the kitchen.

In the living area, Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, which he was staring at over the top of his interlaced fingers. 'In the bathroom, full of water; use the grill.'

Grumbling, John turned away and slid the grill out. 'We need some more bread,' he told Sherlock, as if the detective could magic some for him, or start a shopping list.

Instead, Sherlock called back, 'and milk.'

John (who had gone to the fridge to retrieve the milk for his tea) paused, frowning. 'I bought some yesterday.' Sherlock said nothing. John opened the fridge with a shrug and saw why they needed more. 'Sherlock!' he exclaimed, holding up the milk carton which had what looked suspiciously like maggots squirming inside it, 'Please tell me these are not maggots.'

Sherlock stared at him calmly and said, 'they are not maggots.'

John looked at the carton in disgust. 'What are they?' he said, the feeling to be sick rising at the revolting sight.

'They're maggots,' Sherlock replied. He had gone back to staring at the phone.

John goggled at him. 'But you just said…' he said.

'You asked me to,' Sherlock cut across him indifferently.

John glowered and asked himself, not for the first time, why he could not have a more co-operative flat-mate.

'Your bread is burning,' Sherlock said.

John whipped round and realised it was. He had to put up with very toasty toast that morning. Sherlock was still staring at the phone as if willing it to buzz when he had finished. 'Are you going to answer those text messages we received yesterday?' John asked as he sat down at the desk and booted up his laptop.

'Maybe,' Sherlock said. Knowing his flat-mate better than that though, John knew that the answer was yes.

He tried a different tack. 'What are you waiting for?'

There was a pause. 'I don't understand,' Sherlock said at last.

That was a surprise for John. He knew that Sherlock knew a lot about seeming random things, and a fair bit of normality (like the fact you don't drop toasters into baths full of water) he was seemingly ignorant about. Sherlock sat with his eyes closed, deep in thought. John coughed to get his attention and asked, 'what don't you understand?'

Sherlock didn't look at him. 'If they're not in danger, they're asking on behalf of someone else,' he murmured to himself, 'yet they're not related to that person, or people. They're not close friends or work bosses or anything like that…'

'What are you going on about?' john said, totally lost.

'Got another text or two,' Sherlock said in way of a reply, 'Asked a load of questions in return.' He stared at the ceiling in thought. 'They're worried about being caught texting me, so they won't say anything important.' His eyes narrowed slightly and then he sighed, 'it's no good.' He sprang to his feet and reached for his coat.

'Where are you going?' john said.

'I can't do anything without information,' Sherlock replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

'That's not answered the question.'

'Why do I need to answer it? You're coming with me aren't you?'

'I have to work.'

'By work, you mean look for work.'

'Yes.'

'Ah! Boring!' With that, Sherlock swept from the room.

There was a short pause. John sat on the edge of his seat, staring at nothing in particular, a deep frown upon his face. Then he swore, dropped the remainder of his toast and grabbed for his jacket. He clattered down the steps trying to remember the address texted to them.

He didn't need to bother. Sherlock sat in the back of a taxi with a smug smile on his face, waiting for john. John opened the door and got in. Sherlock opened his mouth.

'Don't say anything,' John growled. Sherlock smirked and rapped the glass separating them and the taxi driver who tapped the accelerator and sped away into the centre of London.

'Are you sure this is it?' John repeated.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and then asked, 'can you see any other building that it might be?'

John looked around momentarily, as if hoping that one might appear out of thin air, but as nothing materialised and numbers 22 and 24 Westward Grove were about a mile from them in either direction, he had to concede defeat. 'But why here?' he asked.

Before them stood 23 Westward Grove, a squat three storey, run down building with tiles missing from its roof and moss and ivy clinging to its walls. A rusty gate swung forlornly on its only still attached hinge and a sign, weathered and covered in cracked paint read "Grover's children's home". The front yard was concrete with two cars parked on it. A brick wall surrounded the property and separated the front from the back. That at least was still in good condition. The windows at the front were covered in lace curtains, except for the windows on the third floor which were all bordered up.

Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said then turned to John with a grin on his face, 'let's go and find out.'

He knocked the gate aside and strode across the concrete to the what-used-to-be-white front door before John could give his opinion. Slightly regretting his decision to come, John traipsed after Sherlock, who had already rung the doorbell. Then a thought struck him. This was probably better than job hunting.

John reached the door as someone opened it. A woman shrieked something over her shoulder before confronting them. 'Yes?' she asked briskly.

Sherlock studied the woman. She was tall, in her late-thirties, with a horsy face, watery blue eyes, loose mousey curls and a disapproving expression. His eyes flicked up and down her. Despite working here, her nails told him that she obviously didn't do much of the work; they were too well kept and were painted beige to match her dress and lipstick. Cared about looking good then. The wedding ring was obvious, a fairly good marriage judging by its upkeep. She wore high heels, another sign that she didn't do much physical work around here. She did wear a crisp white apron however. So she cared about what others thought and liked them to think that she tried to help the poor souls who lived at the home. She however cared little for those around her, evident from her expression as she surveyed the two men on her doorstep.

Sherlock smiled at her. 'Hello,' he said politely, 'we were asked to have a look around here.'

The woman froze, watching him warily. That got Sherlock's attention. Something was up if she was this wary about letting them in. The woman was saved having to answer by a man who called for her at that point.

'Clarissa? Who is it?' boomed a man and the woman opened the door wider to reveal a pompous, stout man with a large belly. Her husband, he also wore a wedding ring on his left hand, a little older than his wife judging by the grey flecks in his dark hair, dressed in a dark suit with a pale coloured waistcoat straining over his spotless shirt. Another worker who didn't put much effort into caring for the children. Probably head of the house judging by his and his wife's clothes, they would prefer to deal with their own personal wants rather than use the money for the preservation of the house. Greedy, obviously, obnoxious, clearly.

'Good day,' Sherlock said with a smile as the man stopped dead.

The man glowered at him before saying, 'we don't want to buy anything thank you. As you can tell from the state of this house, we have very little money.'

Sherlock sniffed. 'Your clothes and perfume suggest otherwise,' he muttered.

The woman, Clarissa, turned to her husband. 'He says they've been asked to look around here,' she said in a barely audible whisper. Her husband visually paled under his well-kept handlebar moustache.

He licked his lips nervously and asked, 'are you social workers?'

Sherlock merely smiled. The couple exchanged a nervous glance. There was defiantly something going on here. But before he could go deeper, there was a crash, a scream echoed down the dark narrow hallway he could see over the couple's shoulders and then someone started crying. Two boys about ten years old raced down the hall for the stairs to the next floor, only to stop when they saw they open door.

Unkempt, dirty, ill-treated: simple deductions. One had recently been in a fight; there was a yellowing bruise on his left arm. Must be about five days old. Second or third hand clothing showed obvious signs of their previous owners. So most of the money here was spent on the couple leading it rather than the children.

The boys were looking at Sherlock just as curiously when someone came striding out of the kitchen behind them. It was a woman, late twenties Sherlock thought, followed shortly afterwards by a thin teenage girl carrying a bawling toddler. The boys looked round at her as she pounced on them, grabbing each boy by the ear. She was either very cross, or very scared. Despite her fury towards the boys who now squawked in her grasp, her eyes kept flicking to the man and woman at the door. As they moved away from the door to confront the little group, Sherlock took the opportunity to invite himself and John inside.

As the couple advanced down the hall, the teenager carrying the toddler tried to squeeze past to get to the stairs but was stopped when the man flung out an arm. The toddlers crying increased. It was covered from head to toe in a sticky red-orange gloop that clung to her hair and frayed clothes.

'What,' the man hissed, advancing on the woman the struggling boys who went suddenly limp and silent, 'is going on?'

The woman looked reluctantly down at him. She couldn't have been taller than 5'7" yet she stood at least three inches taller than him. Her eyes darted between the man and woman and then found Sherlock. He put his head to one side and stared back until she looked away. She flicked back her brown hair, he was unable to distinguish much about its colour in the dim light and said nervously, 'this is nothing I can't handle.'

'What is she covered in?' the woman named Clarissa said, pointing at the bawling toddler, though was careful not to let her accusing finger stray too close to the mucky girl.

The young woman licked her lips. 'Tomato soup,' she answered to the floor.

'Why?' Clarissa asked with barely concealed rage.

'The pot was knocked off the stove and most of its contents landed on her,' the woman murmured. She had released the boys now and they were backing down the hall.

'The rest…' Clarissa said quietly.

'Landed on the floor,' the woman said quieter still.

'You clumsy girl,' Clarissa screamed, 'insolent child!'

'I'm not a child,' the woman breathed, but they didn't seem to hear her. The man was yelling, 'a week's worth of tomato soup was cooking in that pot!' whilst his wife screeched more insults. The young woman glanced towards the teenager carrying the crying toddler and gestured slightly with her head. The teenage girl slipped past the shouting couple and headed up the narrow stairs. As she passed Sherlock, she glanced nervously at him, but he saw deep down as glimmer of hope.

Beside him, John was looking shocked. Sherlock glanced at him and John turned his head to look back. With the smallest nod, Sherlock turned his attention back to the raging couple and coughed quietly.

All fight immediately drained from them. They slowly turned on their heels as Sherlock smiled pleasantly and asked, 'is this a common occurrence?'

'No!' the man insisted as Clarissa glowered at the woman, who flinched. 'No,' he gave the woman an equally disgusted look and she turned and scurried back to the kitchen. 'Let's forget about that,' he said, trying to make his voice sound jollier, 'how... how about we talk in our office?' he pushed open a door to his right. Sherlock and John exchanged another look. John shrugged.

Clarissa entered first, followed shortly by her husband. John was just about to enter when Sherlock pushed past him slightly in the direction of the kitchen.

'Aren't you…?' John started.

'Go ahead,' Sherlock called, 'I want to check something.'

Compared to the hall, the kitchen was filled with light pouring through the windows and open patio door. Pale yellow tiles covered one wall; the others were painted the same colour. The floor was tiled black and white like a chessboard. Everything was spotless. A large dinner table filled the space on the right hand side of the kitchen. A dark coloured fridge and freeze stood to one side. A series of counters and cupboards filled one wall, a big sink in which sat a large cooking pot, the inside splattered with tomato soup, with a small bookshelf filled with cooking books ranging from adult to children at the end nearest Sherlock. Two small ovens stood side-by-side under a small shelf filled with herbs and spices. By these, the young woman stood with her back to Sherlock, mopping the rest of the soup up.

Sherlock studied her. Evidently she did most of the work. She was dressed for that, in jeans, trainers and a plain blue-green t-shirt, her brown hair, more chestnut in this light, was pulled back from her face and fastened at the back in a clip. Her fingernails were grubby and bitten; she was under stress, probably from her fearsome bosses. From what Sherlock remembered, she had looked tired, confirmed when she rested her head on the mop's handle and groaned softly.

'You must really care to take the blame like that,' Sherlock said. The woman's head jerked upwards and she stared at him, horror-struck. He registered her eyes – pale green, flecked with brown and rimmed with a much deeper green – and pale oval face, the childhood freckles fading as adulthood took hold, must be considered pretty to many men. She opened her mouth, fear creeping into her eyes and he nodded towards the sink. 'The football is still in the pot.'

She looked towards it as he gestured. She swallowed and said, 'you're not going to tell them, are you?' He put his head to one side and she burst out, 'they're good lads really, but they're young and reckless and…'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'I'd wash that and leave it outside. It'll look less suspicious out there.'

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then the woman smiled. 'Thank you,' she whispered and turned away.

Sherlock nodded and left. The woman watched him leave in the reflection on the window. Her eyes narrowed.

As Sherlock joined John in the office, his mobile buzzed. Excusing himself, he took it out and peered at it. Another text from the anonymous sender. This one read: _are you here yet? Lee_

Sherlock noted the lack of capitals. He replied with a quick "Yes", slid his phone into his pocket, realised that now he was here he didn't have a clue what to talk about when his phone buzzed again.

_Ask about Billy Grubbs' death. That will explain why you are here. Lee_


	3. Accidents

'My name is Philip Grover, head of Grover's care home, the business my father set up,' the man in the waistcoat said, sitting behind a spacious mahogany desk and smiling across it to Sherlock and John who had sat down in hard backed chairs on the other side. Clarissa had moved across to the opposite side of the room and was pouring brandy into four glasses. She offered them round, Sherlock – and, following his example, John – refused. As her husband took one, they exchanged a meaningful look. Nervously but trying to make his voice sound casual, Philip Grover asked, 'and why are you here?'

'We're here about Billy Grubbs,' Sherlock said, passing his phone to John under the table so that he might have a clue what was going on. He thought it likely that John would give the game away if he didn't understand Sherlock.

Philip Grover choked on the brandy and spluttered as his wife thumped him on the back, 'that case was cleaned up weeks ago!'

Sherlock only just stopped himself from smiling. He'd hit a nerve and he liked that. 'We are just second checking everything before we let the case drop,' Sherlock said, leaning back in the chair until it was resting on only two feet. Beside him, John tried to look like he knew what was going on.

'You didn't second check…' Grover started but his wife hissed, 'Philip!' and he shut up.

Sherlock's chair landed back on the floor with a loud thud. His eyes narrowed and he started to scrutinise the couple who were shifting nervously, knowing that too much had been said. John was starting to catch onto the flow of the conversation now.

'You mean there have been other deaths?' he asked, leaning forward.

'No,' flustered Mrs Grover, her eyes darting to the back of her husband's head and then back to John. 'Not exactly…'

John looked confused. 'What do you mean "not exactly"? Have other people died or not?'

The Grover couple's heads turned to Sherlock for an explanation about John's lack of background knowledge. Sherlock could see the doubt now building about their cover story. He gestured towards John and said, 'new guy, not had time to fill him in. Would you do the honours?'

The couple exchanged looks. They were suspicious now, Sherlock was almost sure they weren't going to say anything. But after a long pause, Grover turned back to John and started talking in an almost bored voice, like he had repeated this many times before.

'It started with Alice Mulroney. She had asthma and ran out of breath at school. Teacher had set them a cross country run to be completed that lesson, anyone who went over had to continue after school – this was the last lesson of the day so that didn't matter much to most people. Alice had some sort of club and wanted to complete it quickly. Had an asthma attack in the field, with no-one to help her and hadn't brought her inhaler, silly girl.'

'That was nearly six months ago, around the time when our last two members of staff joined us. Alice's death certainly shook them, we are grateful they continued, particularly after Kenny's death. Kenny was my deputy. He took care of the home when I couldn't.' ('Nearly all the time then,' Sherlock muttered to himself) 'He died in a car accident with our minibus. Four other children died in that, the eldest was ten. That was about,' he looked at his wife for support, '2?' she shook her head, '3 months ago?' Clarissa nodded curtly. The fingers on her right hand clasped the back of her husband's chair and Sherlock could see her knuckles growing whiter and whiter.

'Poor Kenny, he was a hard worker. Though he was never the same after Millie Spratt's death, she fell from her sister's bedroom window on the third floor. That was when we had that floor bordered up. No-one goes there anymore.'

'Yes,' Grover said, sinking back into his chair, a haunted look growing in the depths of his eyes, 'we've been suffering these recent months. Billy's death was our latest tragedy. No-one really understands what happened. Billy was sixteen and we know that he smoked. One of our workers found cigarettes and a lighter in his room. We believe that he snuck out of the house for a quick smoke before bed,' John noticed Sherlock shift slightly in his seat and his left hand briefly clenched, 'and there was some sort of accident with the lighter. Mike, one of the volunteers, found him. Said he heard something and went to check it out and found Billy. He'd burnt to death.' Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his head twitched. 'Tragic, tragic,' Grover said, completely unaware of how Sherlock was staring at him as he was so focused on John. Clarissa however, her eyes narrowed, was frowning at Sherlock's expression.

'Burnt to death?' Sherlock repeated doubtfully.

'That is according to trained paramedics who we called in when we found him,' Grover said, the pitch of his voice slowly rising, 'you can check the records for proof.'

'I'll keep your word on that,' Sherlock said tersely.

'He didn't mean our records,' Clarissa said sharply, giving her husband a sharp jab in the back, 'he meant the hospital records. Our records are for employees only.'

'Really,' Sherlock said, his gaze shifting to Clarissa, who flinched subtly but held his gaze unwaveringly otherwise, 'that is very interesting. I take it then that we won't be able to look at any of the files concerning the deceased children then?'

'Certain not,' Grover exclaimed, regaining his confidence as his wife hissed like an angered cat, 'those files are confidential. Not without the permission of a member of staff can you look at them and only if they over see it.'

'So how are we supposed to find anything with you breathing down our necks,' Sherlock bristled, his temper rising. He hated it when evidence as essential as this were kept from him. It was like dealing with Lestrade on his very first case all over again.

Sherlock's phone buzzed and John answered it. Another text flashed onto the screen. _You're getting off-topic. Ask what they are doing to stop this and what will happen if they don't. Lee_

John coughed quietly to get the attention of the three people glaring in stony silence at each other. Almost reluctantly, Grover withdrew and turned to him. John gave a nervous grin and asked in a pleasant voice asked, 'so what's being done about this?'

Clarissa and Sherlock turned to look at him now, curiously. Grover looked confused. John looked at each of them in turn before rephrasing his question, 'what is happening to ensure that no "accidents" happen anymore?'

Sherlock opened his mouth with a small roll of his eyes. John did not want to hear it as he was pretty sure that Sherlock was about to point out to him that it was exceedingly unlikely that these could still be considered accidents. John nudged him with his foot and tapped the phone with his fingertip. Sherlock gazed at him levelly and John suddenly felt his insides shrink as Sherlock's gaze bore into him. He simply handed the phone back and turn back to the couple.

Mr and Mrs Grover missed this exchanged as they were too busy staring at each other as if silently discussing how to answer.

Finally Grover said, 'I don't see what else can be done. We've closed off the third floor and the minibus is checked every other week by our technical volunteer Mike. What are you suggesting we do?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock muttered sarcastically so only John heard him, 'take away all lighters and sharp objects.'

John gave him a look which he hoped Sherlock would register as "that wasn't helpful" before turning to the couple the other side of the desk. 'What will happen if these continue?'

'We don't know,' Clarissa said and John was taken aback by the sudden tenderness in her voice, 'we know that the social network doubts our capability. If these continue, there is a chance that the children will be taken from us, reassigned to different care homes and this house will go back to just that, a normal house. We are desperate that... it never comes to that.' Clarissa moved away from her husband back towards the class cabinet that contained the brandy and gave a shuddering breath. John was shocked with this sudden episode of anxiousness that the woman felt towards the situation. He began to doubt that he had judged her right.

Sherlock however was not fooled by this act. 'Very well,' he said after a quick glance at John and thinking that it was best to get off this topic as John was clearly having some major doubts, 'you said two members of staff joined you, but you've only mentioned one.'

'Yes,' Grover said quickly, thankful for the change in topic, 'Elizabeth Evens and Mike Knowles. Mike's our resident handyman, always fixing everything and uh... you met Elizabeth.'

Sherlock nodded. He eyed Clarissa, who still had her back to them, shrugged and said, getting to his feet, 'very well. Thank you for your time.'

John hurriedly joined him as Sherlock swept from the room. As he closed the door, John caught the couple exchange a nervous glance as if to say "was that too much?"

A startled teenage girl, the same girl from earlier but without the toddler, descended the last few steps and sidled away down the hall towards the kitchen. Sherlock was leaning with his forehead against the wall, frowning deeply.

This was supposed to be helpful,' he exploded suddenly. With a squeak, the girl disappeared through the door. John just sighed and waited for an explanation for this outburst. He didn't have to wait long. 'I understand that these are not normal accidents,' Sherlock muttered, 'our mysterious friend wouldn't summon us otherwise. Why though? What do they want me to do?'

'Prove these are not accidents?' John suggested.

'Obviously,' Sherlock said tersely. 'How do they expect me to do that though with no evidence? Why should they care if this place is closed down? Oh…' he stared straight ahead, his eyes widening with understanding. John looked around expectantly. When he saw nothing new, he turned to Sherlock.

'What?'

'This place will be closed down if accidents continue,' Sherlock said slowly.

There was a pause. 'Yes?' John said expectantly.

Sherlock said nothing for a minute then straightened up and stuck his head back into the office. The discussion inside stopped abruptly. 'Sorry to bother you,' Sherlock said, 'but do you mind if we look around?'

There was a hurried reply of 'no, no, of course not,' from Grover and then Sherlock shut the door with a snap. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. John waited whilst Sherlock thought. A smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face.

A pair of dark eyes narrowed shrewdly as they watched the two men from the dark end of the hall.


	4. Texter

I've cut a lot out of this to make it more to the point. Hated the previous version. Will try and update soon, but can't promise due to stupid exams.

* * *

Sherlock strode down the hall. John thought he was going to enter the kitchen but seconds before colliding with the door, Sherlock swivelled on the balls of his feet and entered a door to his left. John followed.

The room was beige; there was no other description for it. If John was to give it a function, he would call it the living room. In the furthest corner, next to the French windows, was a fairly big, chunky television. Sofas lined one wall opposite another fireplace. John couldn't remember seeing that many chimneys but he hadn't being paying much attention to the roof, except when he's been staring at the holes in it. Looking around, he could see that the carpet was fraying and the wallpaper had damp.

Sherlock stood next to the windows staring out into the large garden. John came and joined him. The garden was as wide as the house and was so long that John couldn't see the bottom of it but he had a suspicion that it ended where the wood he could see in the distance began. It was filled with children. About twenty or so boys and girls of all ages were running around, playing games or sitting on the grass chatting. For a second, John forgot their condition and smiled at all the happy children. But when John commented on this, Sherlock ignored him.

'Have you worked it out then?' John said a couple of minutes later.

'Worked out what?' Sherlock asked.

'Who texted us?'

'Oh,' Sherlock said, sounding suddenly smug, 'that was the easy part.'

There was a pause. 'Well?' John said. Sherlock turned and gave him a look. 'No, I haven't worked it out yet,' John said crossly, 'why don't you tell me?'

All the children suddenly looked up at the house. John though for a moment that they were staring at them, but when they stampeded across the grass towards them, Sherlock muttered, 'lunchtime I believe.' Only a couple of the older children noticed the two men standing at the French windows but they didn't say or do anything.

After all the children had disappeared, John turned back to Sherlock. 'Well?'

'There is no distracting you, is there?'

'No.'

'Very well,' Sherlock moved away from the window and went to the door. From next door they could hear cries and laughter as children ate. Sherlock listened to this for a second before continuing. 'There are four adults in this house. We are assuming that the person who texted us is an adult?' he said, directing this at John who nodded. Sherlock nodded in agreement and then sat on the edge of the nearest sofa, fingertips pressed together.

'It's not hard to work out who it is when there are only four to chose from. You have the two rich, pampered heads of house. They hated the idea of us looking in on this case. That therefore rules them out. We are left with two people.'

'The workers,' John said, nodding, 'Elizabeth and Mike.'

'More importantly, a man and a woman,' Sherlock said. John looked blank. Sherlock resisted the temptation to role his eyes and said, very slowly, instead, 'children are dying.'

John's eyes lit up. 'It's Elizabeth,' he said.

'There was no reason for her to take the blame if it were otherwise.' John didn't understand this. He was going to say so when Sherlock remarked casually, 'Lunch is over,' as a horde of children trudged out over the lawn.

John looked at them, before saying, 'and so…'

Sherlock didn't answer but moved away from the window, back towards the door. They passed a tall, fairly good-looking teenage boy as Sherlock entered the kitchen. The boy pretended not to be interested in them, but John saw him glance back as John closed the door behind him. Sherlock was standing right next to John, making John jump when he turned around.

'Stay here and watch the door,' Sherlock said before John could complain.

The kitchen was empty now, except for Elizabeth. She was standing at the sink with a mass of plates, her hand in the steaming water, cleaning the cutlery. Sherlock lent on the counter beside her. Elizabeth looked up briefly at him, blushed, muttered 'hello' and then returned to her work. A smile flicked across Sherlock's face. John recognised the reaction to Sherlock too; it was how Molly at Bart's regularly reacted to Sherlock.

Sherlock leant in close to Elizabeth and whispered, 'hello Lee.'

Lizzie jumped and stared round at Sherlock, wide eyes. 'I… I don't know what you're talking about!'

'Of course you don't,' Sherlock said, leaning back, 'I just wanted to see your reaction.'

Lizzie returned to cleaning the cutlery and busied herself with wiping dry some knives. Finally, she said quickly, as if she was going to burst if she didn't say the words fast enough, 'what are you doing here? It's not…'

'Safe? I know, there's a murderer loose,' Sherlock remarked as casually as if he was discussing the weather.

Lizzie dropped the knives and they clattered to the ground. 'You shouldn't say things like that,' she said after she had bent to pick them up and started arranging them on the tabletop.

'Why?' Sherlock said quietly, 'what do you know about it?'

'Nothing,' Lizzie said firmly facing Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Lizzie tapped the tabletop twice. Sherlock looked down at it. The cutlery spelled out the words: NOT HERE. Lizzie swept them back towards her in a swift movement and started setting up them again. 'Take my advice, Sir,' she said, not looking at Sherlock until she had finished organizing, 'try looking somewhere else.' The tabletop now read: LATER.

'Where?' Sherlock whispered. Lizzie twisted the vertical of the R and slid it into the two teaspoons that had made the curve and so it made an arrow pointing to the right. Sherlock glanced out of the windows at the garden. He nodded once and gestured to John to open the door.

'Sir,' Lizzie called after him when he reached the door, 'a word of advice, be careful what you say, even when you think that it's in private. There is no privacy in a house like this. You'll find that walls have ears and if you're not careful…' she didn't need to finish the sentence. Sherlock nodded again and then led John back down the hall and up the stairs.

As the floorboards above his head creaked, the tall good-looking boy stepped out of the living room. He shouldered the bag he was carrying and, after surveying the hallway, entered the kitchen, blade in hand.

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